


Thinking too Much

by daydreamerdisease



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Daydreaming, Dirty Thoughts, Episode Related, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Gen, M/M, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamerdisease/pseuds/daydreamerdisease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes working behind a desk all day made Sam Wesson antsy. </p><p>Mentions of: Canning, whipping, gagging, choking, and bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking too Much

**Author's Note:**

> Something I pieced together, imagining Sam stuck behind a desk all day and what he might be thinking.
> 
> No partner is explicitly stated but it alludes briefly to a man. Take it how you will.

He felt like shit.

Not only had class ran late, but work was a hassle. Sitting behind a desk all day seemed like an ideal job, especially when your body was sore from gym and school, and genuinely trying to pass as a human being took it's toll, but the tension headaches it gave him weren't always worth it. He didn't make much anyway as one of the millions of tech-support nerds there were in their side of the office (okay, so maybe only a dozen, but as far as he was concerned they didn't need that many to answer phones just to tell you to turn your printer off and on). 

Nonetheless, he needed a job and he was fine with it, for the most part. Except on days like this. When he felt his bones were too big for his body, his skin felt like cotton scraping against sandpaper with every move he made, and his blood was pumping so hard he could hear it over the sound of the phones ringing all over the place. He wanted to bash his head against the desk. Smash his fingers against the keyboard until his bones creaked and his fingertips bled. His leg kept jumping up and down, the coffee he drank that morning having been pissed out long ago.

He wanted-no he needed to stop thinking. It didn't matter that he was about 76% sure he was going to fail his statistics midterm. Or that the bathroom's faucet in his apartment wouldn't stop dripping and he needed to start saving money on the side to get it fixed, because his landlord was a douchebag and didn't count repairs as his responsibility. His neighbors chihuahua being left outside for hours? Not his problem. The fact that he needed to move up laundry day because he needed to study? Wasn't going to cause the world to implode.

Except it felt like it would. Like nothing would ever get done and he was sitting in front of the computer, staring at the screen for a full five minutes, just debating whether or not to get water. It wasn't hectic and he knew, intellectually, that he had it better than most. It didn't matter. None of it made any sense. He still felt like lifting a finger was carrying a cross over his shoulders. Like if his decisions affected the world when it truth, it just meant he might eat tuna for lunch instead of chicken, and the rest of the world couldn't give a fuck what he did as long as he didn't harm anyone but himself.

And even then..

Well he just tended to take it so seriously. 

Who knew what decision led him to the wrong place. The right place. To Hell. What if he took a different route to work? What if he was out of peanut butter, even though he didn't like it all that much? It didn't matter. None of it did. And yet, he was sitting there, debating on whether the decision to call his mother that week or ignore her usual phone call, meant children all over the world were going to have something to eat or starve.

He was stupid. He was bored. He was frustrated. He was depressed. No. No. He wasn't depressed. He was just a little unhappy with his life sometimes. He was just being melodramatic. Did you know, statistically speaking- 40 million adults, 18% of the US, were affected by anxiety disorders? What a load of crock shit. He wasn't anxious. He just needed to stop thinking. He needed to close his eyes and breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe-

-breathe a little fucking deeper and let it out before he choked on his own breath.

Or no. Maybe that's exactly what he wanted? Maybe he needed someone to press the heel of their hand against his adam's apple, cut off his air supply, and wrap their fingers tight around his neck hard enough to leave bruises for days. He always hated turtle necks but maybe he could get used to them.

Maybe he needed the red stripes left by a cane that made it hard to sit the next day, the burn marks from stubble scratching against his face, the raw pain on his knees from kneeling too long, the ache in his skin that could only be left by the slide of rope tightening when he moved an inch, the bite marks on his thighs, the sting of cuts from a knife on the sensitive skin of his hip, the ache in his bones from being bound in place to be used and abused as someone else saw fit, the whip marks on his back, the soreness of his lips from being gagged. Maybe. Maybe. 

Maybe he just needed to stop thinking just for a little bit.

Maybe he was-

"What?"

"..I'm sorry, yes. Of course. Have you tried turning it off and on again? Oh, it's working now? Good. No problem. I'm always happy to help. Have a good day."


End file.
